The Best Friend Bargain

Then he did.

He met someone who pushed him enough. He finally saw the light.

All right, that someone was my baby sister. And he did get her pregnant. It was what she wanted. They’re both happy.

But it’s hard getting past the whole what the fuck, dude, you got my sister pregnant impulse that rises in my stomach.

Ariel’s almost twenty-five now. She’s getting a PhD. She’s self-reliant.

And now she has Chase to help her, protect her, take care of her.

I trust him to do it.

But it’s hard letting go of my need to protect my baby sister.

Our mom died when I was a teenager. Dad fell apart, so I picked up the slack. I made sure he ate. I took Ariel to school. I kept Holden out of trouble, more or less.

For a long time, that was my life. It was taking care of other people.

I’m not complaining. There’s something about making sure my family is happy, healthy, safe. It fills me in a way nothing else does.

Now—

They don’t need me anymore.

I shake off the thought as I refill my cup, cross the room, offer my client her water.

She pulls her legs onto the bench. Folds them over each other.

It’s the same way Skye sits when she’s watching TV on the couch.

Fuck, my head is swimming.

This girl is cute, yeah, but that doesn’t matter.

The skin stretched over bone.

The words I’m etching onto it—

That’s the only thing that matters.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the cup. She stares at it for a moment, looking for confidence or comfort or something else it’s incapable of offering. “You do a lot of these?”

“Wings?” I ask.

She nods yeah.

I can talk work. Hell, I can offer her a shoulder to cry on. As long as that’s all it is. “Some. They’re not as popular as they used to be.”

“So my look is dated?” Her lips curl into a shy smile.

“Classic.” I take a long sip. Set my cup on my shelf. Reach for a new set of gloves. “The last few years, tattoos have gotten more popular. It’s not just punk rock babes and biker dudes. Moms come in with their kids. Honor students come in with their friends. Virgins come in with their boyfriends.”

“Virgins?” Her eyes go wide with interest. She stares at me like she’s waiting for me to launch into some Penthouse letter kind of story.

Fuck, it does sound raunchy like that. “Tattoo virgins.” I give her a quick once over. “This is your first?”

She shakes her head. Peels her jean leg up, revealing a shooting star on her ankle.

It’s small and messy. Perfect in its messiness, actually.

“I was seventeen and my boyfriend knew a guy who wouldn’t ID,” she says. “As you can tell, the work is impeccable.”

“Scared you off, for what, a year?” I turn on the charm. Shoot her that baby, we both know you’re a hottie look.

Her cheeks flush. “A few more than that.” She finishes her water. Offers me the cup.

I take it. Nod to the bench. “You ready?”

The song fades into the next. An ode to the singer’s apathy about his ex. He doesn’t care about her. He doesn’t miss her. He doesn’t need her.

Why does she think he cares anyway?

I’m not sure which of us is less plausible.

I’m not over Mack, sure, but it’s not that I’m still in love with her. Or that I want her back.

It’s more that I don’t know what the hell I want.

Mack filled this hole in my heart. There was this emptiness inside me. I didn’t even know it was there until she filled it.

She made everything brighter, easier. For the first time, I wasn’t a guy surviving, barely managing to take care of my family.

I was awake, alive, okay.

We had problems, sure. Plenty I let myself ignore. But we were happy. I thought we were happy.

Until I walked in on her with him.

After that—

Some part of me shattered. The world went back to being dark, ugly, hard. Only everything was different.

My dad was functioning.

My brother and sister were adults.

They didn’t need me anymore.

No one needed me anymore. Not the way they did.

And I—

Gloria Gaynor is okay because she still knows how to love.

I’ve got no fucking idea. How can anyone let their guard down? It’s the stupidest decision of all time.

I miss it.

God, there’s something about letting someone in. About feeling completely understood.

Understanding someone else.

Showing them exactly where they can hurt you.

It’s exhilarating.

But when I think about it now—

Fuck, the room is already getting stuffy.

“I think I’m ready.” My client’s stilted voice pulls me from my thoughts. “How much more will it hurt?”

It always hurts. But it’s worth it. “You can handle it.”

Her nose scrunches with distaste. “What if I can’t?”

“You can.”

“What if I can’t? Are you going to make it up to me somehow?” Her eyes meet mine. They ask for comfort. Safety. Sex.